15. Chapter XV: Of The Gravity Of The Americans, And Why It Does Not
Prevent Them From Often Committing Inconsiderate Actions
Men who live in democratic countries do not value the
simple, turbulent, or coarse diversions in which the people
indulge in aristocratic communities: such diversions are thought
by them to be puerile or insipid. Nor have they a greater
inclination for the intellectual and refined amusements of the
aristocratic classes. They want something productive and
substantial in their pleasures; they want to mix actual fruition
with their joy. In aristocratic communities the people readily
give themselves up to bursts of tumultuous and boisterous gayety,
which shake off at once the recollection of their privations: the
natives of democracies are not fond of being thus violently
broken in upon, and they never lose sight of their own selves
without regret. They prefer to these frivolous delights those
more serious and silent amusements which are like business, and
which do not drive business wholly from their minds. An
American, instead of going in a leisure hour to dance merrily at
some place of public resort, as the fellows of his calling
continue to do throughout the greater part of Europe, shuts
himself up at home to drink. He thus enjoys two pleasures; he
can go on thinking of his business, and he can get drunk decently
by his own fireside.
I thought that the English constituted the most serious
nation on the face of the earth, but I have since seen the
Americans and have changed my opinion. I do not mean to say that
temperament has not a great deal to do with the character of the
inhabitants of the United States, but I think that their
political institutions are a still more influential cause. I
believe the seriousness of the Americans arises partly from their
pride. In democratic countries even poor men entertain a lofty
notion of their personal importance: they look upon themselves
with complacency, and are apt to suppose that others are looking
at them, too. With this disposition they watch their language
and their actions with care, and do not lay themselves open so as
to betray their deficiencies; to preserve their dignity they
think it necessary to retain their gravity.
But I detect another more deep-seated and powerful cause
which instinctively produces amongst the Americans this
astonishing gravity. Under a despotism communities give way at
times to bursts of vehement joy; but they are generally gloomy
and moody, because they are afraid. Under absolute monarchies
tempered by the customs and manners of the country, their spirits
are often cheerful and even, because as they have some freedom
and a good deal of security, they are exempted from the most
important cares of life; but all free peoples are serious,
because their minds are habitually absorbed by the contemplation
of some dangerous or difficult purpose. This is more especially
the case amongst those free nations which form democratic
communities. Then there are in all classes a very large number
of men constantly occupied with the serious affairs of the
government; and those whose thoughts are not engaged in the
direction of the commonwealth are wholly engrossed by the
acquisition of a private fortune. Amongst such a people a
serious demeanor ceases to be peculiar to certain men, and
becomes a habit of the nation.
We are told of small democracies in the days of antiquity,
in which the citizens met upon the public places with garlands of
roses, and spent almost all their time in dancing and theatrical
amusements. I do not believe in such republics any more than in
that of Plato; or, if the things we read of really happened, I do
not hesitate to affirm that these supposed democracies were
composed of very different elements from ours, and that they had
nothing in common with the latter except their name. But it must
not be supposed that, in the midst of all their toils, the people
who live in democracies think themselves to be pitied; the
contrary is remarked to be the case. No men are fonder of their
own condition. Life would have no relish for them if they were
delivered from the anxieties which harass them, and they show
more attachment to their cares than aristocratic nations to their
pleasures.
I am next led to inquire how it is that these same
democratic nations, which are so serious, sometimes act in so
inconsiderate a manner. The Americans, who almost always
preserve a staid demeanor and a frigid air, nevertheless
frequently allow themselves to be borne away, far beyond the
bound of reason, by a sudden passion or a hasty opinion, and they
sometimes gravely commit strange absurdities. This contrast
ought not to surprise us. There is one sort of ignorance which
originates in extreme publicity. In despotic States men know not
how to act, because they are told nothing; in democratic nations
they often act at random, because nothing is to be left untold.
The former do not know -the latter forget; and the chief
features of each picture are lost to them in a bewilderment of
details.
It is astonishing what imprudent language a public man may
sometimes use in free countries, and especially in democratic
States, without being compromised; whereas in absolute monarchies
a few words dropped by accident are enough to unmask him forever,
and ruin him without hope of redemption. This is explained by
what goes before. When a man speaks in the midst of a great
crowd, many of his words are not heard, or are forthwith
obliterated from the memories of those who hear them; but amidst
the silence of a mute and motionless throng the slightest whisper
strikes the ear.
In democracies men are never stationary; a thousand chances
waft them to and fro, and their life is always the sport of
unforeseen or (so to speak) extemporaneous circumstances. Thus
they are often obliged to do things which they have imperfectly
learned, to say things they imperfectly understand, and to devote
themselves to work for which they are unprepared by long
apprenticeship. In aristocracies every man has one sole object
which he unceasingly pursues, but amongst democratic nations the
existence of man is more complex; the same mind will almost
always embrace several objects at the same time, and these
objects are frequently wholly foreign to each other: as it cannot
know them all well, the mind is readily satisfied with imperfect
notions of each.
When the inhabitant of democracies is not urged by his
wants, he is so at least by his desires; for of all the
possessions which he sees around him, none are wholly beyond his
reach. He therefore does everything in a hurry, he is always
satisfied with "pretty well," and never pauses more than an
instant to consider what he has been doing. His curiosity is at
once insatiable and cheaply satisfied; for he cares more to know
a great deal quickly than to know anything well: he has no time
and but little taste to search things to the bottom. Thus then
democratic peoples are grave, because their social and political
condition constantly leads them to engage in serious occupations;
and they act inconsiderately, because they give but little time
and attention to each of these occupations. The habit of
inattention must be considered as the greatest bane of the
democratic character.